


House of Stone

by NayaWarbler



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Baker Gabriel (Supernatural), Fluff, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Librarian Dean Winchester, Librarian Sam Winchester, M/M, Mystery, Writer Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:01:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28151310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NayaWarbler/pseuds/NayaWarbler
Summary: No one knows the man who shows up in the middle of their desolate town and spends his days at the bakery typing away on his laptop, or why he's driving a stolen car and lives out of a single suitcase.The only one with a chance of finding out? Dean Winchester. Only, he's not particularly interested.Good thing mystery man is also rather pushy.
Relationships: Castiel & Gabriel (Supernatural), Castiel & Sam Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Gabriel & Sam Winchester
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! Yes, I realize that I should be working on my existing WIPs instead of starting a new one, but where's the fun in that? Actually, those are quite fun too, but this one called to me in all its mysterious complexity. It's different from anything I've written before, and I'm equal parts nervous and excited to give it a go.
> 
> Title is derived from Ivy by Taylor Swift (if you haven't listened to Evermore yet, why the hell not??).

Castiel killed the engine. He sat for a moment in the driver’s seat as cold air began to seep passively into the car, grasping at the wheel as though he was a teenager afraid to make his first turn. To be fair, he’d never had much occasion to drive in the past; he could count the number of times he’d done so on both hands. His ribs still felt lodged in his throat from the excitement of it all.

His fingers unconsciously found the overhead mirror, and he positioned it so he could see his own face better. His hair was wild and untamed, a far cry from the neat and tidy style he’d worn since… well, growing hair. A small smile tugged at his lips at the sight, and he couldn’t resist running a hand through it once, just to test how far it would go. He squeezed his own cheeks the way his mother once had, scraping smooth fingers against stubbly skin, and shivered. From the cold, not the memory. Really.

Kicking open the car door, Castiel wrapped his arms around himself as he waded through the thick snow to the trunk and popped it open. Luckily, there was a coat rolled up in the far reaches of the storage compartment. He slipped his arms through it, biting his lip as he realized how thin the material was. Oh, well – better than nothing if he was going to sleep in the car. Maybe he could leave the engine running… Hadn’t he’d read something about carbon monoxide when he’d gotten his license a good ten years ago? The thought nagged him as he tried to remember, unzipping his suitcase to grab his wallet.

He pushed open the door of the coffee shop, sighing as warm air consumed him. By instinct, his feet carried him towards the short line of people behind the counter, which displayed several beautifully crafted pastries. He tapped his shoe against the floor as he waited behind a tall, handsomely dressed man whose nose was buried in some kind of folder. Castiel averted his eyes out of respect, but the man seemed to sense his presence and turned a well-mannered smile onto him.

“New around here?” he asked, pushing a pair of round glasses further up his nose with the tip of a finger before using that hand to brush his long hair out of his face. Instead of responding, Castiel stared back at him, already forgetting his politeness. The man didn’t seem offended, though, electing to laugh lightheartedly at his antics. “Don’t worry, you’re not obvious or anything. It’s just a small town. Everyone knows everyone, and I don’t know you.”

“Oh, uh… yes.” Castiel responded, eyes wandering away to take in the shop. It was a tiny bakery, wide but with a claustrophobically low ceiling that made Castiel loosen his tie to bring more air into his lungs. He coughed into his arm.

“It’s a little place,” the man continued, recognizing Castiel’s discomfort but not at all put off by it. That was new. “The owner is a friend of mine. He tried to get a bigger place, but this was all he could afford right out of college, and he hasn’t been able to expand quite yet. You know how it is.”

“Mmm,” Castiel replied non-committedly in that way he’d grown accustomed to.

The man shrugged, apparently giving up on engaging in conversation, and stepped up to the counter. “Hey there,” he greeted the barista, fist-bumping him like boys do. “I’ll have the usual and whatever flavour of pie you’ve got today. How’ve ya been?”

“Better now that you’re here,” the barista joked, pushing an already filled bag and steaming cup towards him. “Tell that brother of yours that I hope he enjoys the pie.”

“He should come get it himself,” the man grumbled, handing him a twenty-dollar bill. The barista reached for change, and the man just raised an eyebrow in a pointed look as if to say _really?_ – it looked like some sort of regular exchange, comfortable and friendly in the way only a small-town conversation could be. Castiel frowned, growing more confused by the minute.

“Not if that means you don’t show up every day, Samuel,” he joked, putting the change back in the register.

The man – Samuel – laughed happily as he waved goodbye, leaving Castiel feeling unreasonably exposed. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving you behind, Gabriel,” Samuel bid his farewells before elbowing the door open, the silky bell chimes punctuating his departure.

Castiel stood frozen in his place as he was left face-to-face with the barista, with _Gabriel_. So it was true, then. He was in the right place, if he could still call it that, if he had the right. He’d never been here, after all, not in all this time.

“Next!” called out Gabriel. Nails digging into his palms, Castiel strode towards the counter, head held high but feeling like it was about to fall off his neck, unsupported. He swallowed around the thick knot in his throat, relaxing his fists and instead picking at the buttons of his shirt cuffs. Gabriel cocked an eyebrow at him and said, “Can I help you?”

“Y-Yes, I…” Castiel’s mouth ran dry suddenly and sharply as he eyed the man’s soft-looking face. How long had it been? Fifteen, sixteen years, maybe more. Of course he didn’t recognize him; Castiel had barely been a teenager the last they’d seen one another. “Um, I’ll have a coffee.”

“Coming right up.”

Castiel wandered over to the collecting side, observing that Samuel hadn’t had to wait for his order. They must be closer than he’d initially pegged them to be from the man’s description of him. Gabriel appeared after a few minutes, sliding the cup towards him. Quietly, Castiel muttered, “Thank you.”

Gabriel nodded, knocking on the table with his knuckles. “You don’t have to look so nervous,” he advised, giving Castiel a toothy grin. “Never a mean face around here if you don’t give one first. Best remember that if you’re planning on stickin’ around.”

“Right. Thanks,” he replied intelligently, the overwhelming feeling returning in his chest and swelling like an allergic reaction. This time, he didn’t blame the ceiling for his inability to breathe.

Then, Gabriel frowned. “You alright, man?”

He nodded. “I always am.” He lifted his drink awkwardly into the air in a sort of one-sided toast. “I have not had my coffee yet. You could say that I am a writer, so I suppose it is a bit of a stereotype that I cannot function properly without some sort of neurological stimulant. Perhaps I should be thankful that mine is coffee instead of a more mind-altering substance.”

The barista stared at him in astonishment for a moment before cracking. “That explains it,” Gabriel laughed, a familiar yet entirely foreign sound that made Castiel’s heart tighten painfully. Gabriel began to wipe down the counter as his gaze travelled back to the front counter where the line was empty at the moment. He turned back to Castiel. “Looks like the breakfast rush has died down. You looking for someone to show you around town? I could close up shop for a bit.” It was a strange offer for a stranger who hadn’t even confirmed that he was staying in town, was it not?

“I was just going to seat myself at one of these tables and attempt productivity,” Castiel explained anxiously, picking harder at his sleeves, “if that is acceptable in this establishment, of course.”

Gabriel seemed surprised again. “No, go on ahead, man. We don’t get a lot of people who want to sit inside – kind of claustrophobic and all, even though my muffins are worth it, and my baked goods too.” He smirked, wiggling his eyebrows in a way that was more humorous than suggestive, mercifully. His smile turned sincere. “Really, go for it. Pick any table.”

So he did, picking a two-person table by the windows to combat the airlessness. If he could see open space, he could imagine open space – a tactic he’d used more than once in his childhood for more than one thing. Setting his laptop down and cracking it open, Castiel frowned at the low battery signal. Had he even remembered to grab his charger in his rush to leave? He would never have left his laptop behind, but even his strait-laced brain had been in enough of a frenzy to forget things.

He sighed. He would do whatever he could now and hope that he didn’t lose it all whenever his laptop inevitably died. All things die, after all, even when you remember to bring your charging cable. Maybe he could include that entirely irrelevant metaphor in his novel. Castiel began typing, fingers hitting the backspace button more than any other letter, and an hour later he was still staring at a blank page and clutching a paper cup half-filled with cold coffee.

A throat-clearing sound made him remove his tightly clenched fingers from his tatty hair. Looking up, he saw Gabriel with a ceramic mug and coffee pot. “Some people forget their drinks when they’re working,” Gabriel observed matter-of-factly, pouring him a cup when he nodded. “My mom was like that. I’d make her a cup of tea, and she’d ask for a new one every hour on the dot, like clockwork.”

Noticing the still rather empty shop, Castiel gestured for Gabriel to join him. The barista, while caught off guard, seemed to reel in his wide eyes much faster this time, as though he was already getting used to the strange man who’d come to his coffee shop and parked himself at a table. He slid into the opposite seat.

“Are you two close?” Castiel asked. He knew the answer, of course, but that didn’t stop him from asking like the cowardly person he was.

Gabriel shook his head, seeming unbothered. “Not at all. We kind of hated each other, to be honest.”

Castiel took a sip. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I am not close with my mother either,” Castiel offered. “I suppose I was, up until a few weeks ago.”

Gabriel straightened his back, interest piqued. “Can I ask what happened?”

Castiel didn’t answer, turning his gaze back to the blank screen of nothingness. Perhaps it was rude, but he wasn’t much bothered, and it seemed that neither was Gabriel. They were alike in that way, and different in so many more.

A moment later, Castiel looked back up. “Who was the man you served before me? The one called Samuel?”

“Huh?” Gabriel asked, confused.

Castiel wondered why he would be confused when the two seemed to know each other so well. “The tall man wearing a suit. He looked like he was from the city, not here.”

“Oh!” Gabriel laughed again, this time louder, more boisterous. “That was Sam. He lives in town with his brother. They’re really quite secretive, but we’ve gotten to know one another pretty well. On the surface, at least."

Interesting. Castiel picked up a spoon and stirred his coffee despite there being no additives. “You should be careful with whom you share information,” he mentioned absentmindedly. “I could be a stalker.”

A hard look crossed Gabriel’s face. “You’re not, are you?”

“No,” Castiel replied. “No, I am merely curious.”

The barista leaned back in his chair and fixed a perplexed look onto him. “You’re strange.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“Why are you here?” Gabriel asked, cutting to the chase. “We never get new people.”

“I never said I was staying,”

“But you are.”

“Yes.” Castiel shrugged. “Or no. I haven’t decided.”

“You don’t seem like the impulsive type,” Gabriel observed.

“That would be a correct assessment,” he confirmed. “I am neither impulsive nor spontaneous, and yet here I am.”

“There’s gotta be a juicy story there.”

Castiel winced and turned his laptop, displaying its blank screen. “No ‘juicy story,’ believe me.”

Gabriel grimaced. “Writer’s block is a bitch.”

“I thought maybe coming here would make it…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Nothing has worked.”

“It’ll come to you,” he reassured, shrugging absently. “Happens to me sometimes with recipes. More often that not, though, it’s harder getting them to taste good than coming up with ideas.”

“I cannot say the same,” Castiel sighed. “I’ve been informed that my technical skills are remarkable. The ideas are my Achilles heel. The first one, especially. After that it makes some semblance of sense.”

Gabriel stood, wiping down the clean table. “Do you have a first idea?”

“A seed,” he groaned. “I could use a flower.”

“Can I ask what the seed looks like?” Gabriel inquired courteously, but the glint in his eye betrayed his humor.

Castiel wavered under the unrelenting gaze. “It’s about…” he trailed off, mind racing as he tried to put it into words that would do an abstract thought justice. “Well, it’s about monsters.”

The door opened then, chiming of bells so light and airy in the heavy atmosphere, and Gabriel turned to rush back to counter without another word. So quickly, in fact, that Castiel almost entirely missed the way his eyes darted back towards him with apprehension.

***


	2. Chapter 2

The sun was a killer. At least, that was how it felt when it was shining in his eyes no later than six o’clock in the morning. He’d thought that winter was supposed to have longer nights, but apparently that memo had gotten lost somewhere in cosmic mail. Groaning, Castiel pulled himself upright, fingers grappling for the car keys and shoving them into the ignition.

As he woke up slowly, he realized one thing that seemed to wake him up instantly: he had never been colder in his entire life. His body trembled as he pulled the blanket tighter around his frame, refusing to warm even as the heating system kicked in at full force. The loud roar of the engine was like a sledgehammer to his frozen brain, and Castiel thought for a moment that he might die right then and there. What a pathetic death, he concluded, for a writer nonetheless. Or poetic, maybe, through a different lens. Wasn’t that what Anna had told him once about his work, that he had to look at it through every possible lens to understand it?

Once the roaring engine quieted, Castiel lay back in his seat, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. Maybe he should have thought this through more. Maybe he should have taken a warmer blanket or sweater or more money so he could afford a motel off the side of the road. A sudden and sharp knocking at his window startled him out of his stupor, and he forced his frozen limbs to roll it down. Castiel hissed as the cold air assaulted his bluing face and, blinking ferociously, registered Gabriel’s unhappy expression on the other side.

“You look like death,” the barista exclaimed, holding out a to-go cup of coffee that Castiel took gratefully. It was piping hot and heaven-sent, no doubt. He sipped on it, allowing it to warm him from the inside. A moment passed before it occurred to him to grab his wallet, but Gabriel just glared at him the way Samuel – Sam – had the day before when he tried to reach for it. Huh. He put it back.

“Thank you, Gabriel,” he whispered, still weary from waking up as a snowman.

The man’s lips were locked in a deep frown. “I got here an hour ago to start baking and you were fast asleep in your car in the parking lot. I guess I should tell you that you can’t sleep here, right?”

Castiel nodded. “I thought I would at least try, but I understand.”

“There’s a motel down the street, you know.”

“I know.”

Gabriel watched his face carefully before sighing and tugging at the door. “Come on, kid.”

“Come on where?”

“Inside the bakery. I’m not letting you catch your death out here.”

Ten minutes later, the two were settled at the same table as before, Castiel nursing a new cup of coffee and a leftover scone. He had insisted on paying this time, but Gabriel had just shrugged and told him it would have gone in the trash otherwise, so he’d shut his mouth and accepted it appreciatively.

“I don’t even know your name,” Gabriel pointed out suddenly, leaning on his elbows on the table. “You know mine, somehow, but I don’t know yours.”

“I heard Sam address you yesterday,” he explained.

“Makes sense.”

Castiel didn’t say more. Sure, Gabriel was a common enough name, but the moment he heard Castiel’s name, the charade would be over. He would know. And neither was ready for that – at least, that’s what he told himself.

“You’re a mysterious dude,” Gabriel went on. “Show up out of nowhere in a small town in Kansas and say you’re not a stalker but are writing a book about monsters. Won’t tell me your name or where you’re from, and you look strangely familiar, like maybe I’ve seen you before on TV or something.”

“I’ve never been on the television,” Castiel interrupted. He folded his lips together sourly – that would have been an out. Why hadn’t he just taken it? Maybe he’d been on the local news for saving a cat from a tree. Cats were talkative little bastards once you got to know them.

“And that, too,” he continued. “You talk like you’ve never spoken to another human being in real life. It’s super weird, man. Are you, like, an alien or something?”

Castiel took a long sip of his coffee, the way a man treated water when he didn’t know when his next drink would be. “I appreciate your hospitality, Gabriel, but I should be going.”

“Going where? No offence, but it doesn’t really seem like you have your life figured out at all.” He wasn’t wrong, now was he? Castiel bit the inside of his mouth until his brain forced him to let go, even though he didn’t want to. Perhaps sensing his distress, Gabriel eased up. “Okay, look, I’ll stop asking questions if that’s why you’re in such a rush to leave.”

“Why do you care if I stay or not?” Castiel blurted out before he could process what he was saying.

Again, Gabriel seemed unphased as he shrugged. “I don’t get much company around here except during big business times. Breakfast, lunch. Not so many customers at dinner, since eating a chocolate croissant at 8pm is usually reserved for college students and… the French?”

“J'en doute,” Castiel muttered. “Vous dites aussi des choses bizarres.” He stopped, blinking. The formal ‘you’ had felt strange coming out of his mouth. But he didn’t really know Gabriel, did he? Not anymore, not in the last decade and a half. He shook it off; Gabriel probably hadn’t even understood what he’d said.

The barista laughed. “Vous m’étonnez, comme une énigme.”

“You speak French,” Castiel realized. Of course, he did. How could he have forgotten the time they’d flown to Paris for Gabriel’s sixteenth birthday? He’d made Castiel quiz him with flashcards for three months before the trip so he could impress French girls.

“Just a little,” Gabriel replied humbly. “Learned a bit when I was a teenager.”

“As did I,” Castiel revealed. They settled back into a comfortable silence for a few minutes before Gabriel stood, pushing his chair back.

“I should really get started,” Gabriel said sheepishly. “The bakery opens soon, and the mobs will eat whatever’s inside it, whether or not that happens to be food.”

He waved him off. “Go on. I’ll make another attempt at writing in the meantime.” And he did _attempt_ – Castiel was the kind of writer to plan meticulously before even thinking about starting the storytelling, which usually worked, except in this instance where he was so focused on his research that he almost forgot why he was researching in the first place.

The day passed quickly and painfully with one pitstop to the bathroom and another to the car, which he tore apart searching for his laptop charger – thank the heavens that he found it and thank Gabriel for pointing out an outlet close enough to his table. The barista in question would stop by every few hours with a treat that Castiel would attempt to pay for only to be glared at, followed by a devious, gleeful smile when he relented.

After the final customer was shooed out the door, Gabriel picked up a broom. Castiel, having a brilliant idea spur-of-the-moment, grabbed the broom from his hands and began sweeping the floor. He tutted when the man tried to take it back. “You’ve probably kept me alive today, not to mention well-fed,” Castiel argued, “so this is the least I can do.”

Gabriel eventually relented and moved behind the counter to pack up the leftovers. “Fine, but you’re taking these with you. I’m not having you starve.” They worked together in quiet for the next while until Gabriel plugged his phone into a machine and music began playing loudly from the speakers. It was some pop song from the radio that Castiel never paid much mind to, but he said nothing as the man danced happily around the bakery, tidying up and preparing to close.

Instead, he let himself wonder if tonight would be as bad as the night before. Maybe worse as they neared the dead of winter. Gabriel collapsed, exhausted, into the seat opposite him once more, immediately noticing the frown on his face. “What’s up, man?”

“I was just thinking of my novel,” Castiel lied, opening a random page on his web browser. Gabriel peeked over his shoulder, laughing when he saw the screen.

“Vampires?” he giggled. “Are you the next Stephenie Meyer? Give me your autograph, I’m sure it’ll be worth a fortune someday.”

“Humorous,” Castiel said dryly, rolling his eyes. He clicked off the page, returning to his long running list of research and possible plotlines in the margins. Scrolling through them, he frowned when he realized there were several issues with them that he had no idea how to solve. Groaning, he banged his head again the table and shut his eyes.

Gabriel placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Hey, it’s gonna work out.”

“Is it?” he fought back, sound muffled by his arms. “I find such thoughts seldom reassuring, considering how little basis in reasoning they generally have.”

“Maybe I can help. What’s got you stuck?”

Castiel sat upright, rubbing his eyes. “These sources are very contradictory. One says that vampires must be killed by decapitation, whereas another suggests a stake through the heart, which is clearly the more infamous method, and yet _another_ which advises a sacred bullet!”

“Man, this is gruesome,” the barista muttered, wincing. “I don’t know, pick one? What difference does it make?”

“I will not just ‘pick one,’ Gabriel. How would I know which correlates with the other folklore? Inconsistency is a direct reflection of idleness, which I do _not_ approve of.”

“Okay, then…” He paused, thumb rubbing at his chin in a way that Castiel had never seen done outside of a black-and-white film with dramatic cello music playing behind it. “Go to The Men of Letters.”

Castiel frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“Right, you’re from out of town.” Gabriel got up, turning to grab the package of leftovers and shoving it into Castiel’s hands. “The Men of Letters is the library down the street. Remember Sam? He and his brother own it. I think it’s got what you’re looking for.”

“I don’t need more books,” Castiel argued. “The internet is perfectly suitable for research needs.”

Gabriel smirked. “Who said anything about books?”


	3. Chapter 3

The door creaked open in its loud, obnoxious way, and a few moments later, a paper bag was sitting in front of his face. Dean looked up, eyes wide and hopeful to find his brother rolling his eyes. “Here’s your pie, your majesty,” Sam grumbled, pushing the bag towards him; Dean was already halfway through opening it.

“You’re the best, man,” he moaned around mouthfuls. “Actually, Gabriel is the best. You’re just the messenger. But thanks anyway. What is this, apple?”

“It’s rhubarb, you unsophisticated child, which you would know if you looked at your food before inhaling it,” his brother teased, shrugging off his coat and heading over to the counter. “And that one is, unfortunately, not from the bakery. I knew it would be closed by the time I got back so I stopped at that café in Wichita you like on my way home.”

“Should have known, it’s missing the ‘love’ that Gabe puts in it… which I’m realizing better as hell not be a euphemism.” Dean set his fork down, momentarily losing his appetite – key word being momentarily. “How’s Eileen?” he asked cautiously, watching his little brother’s face for anything he could find in it. Sam didn’t meet his eyes, trained on where his fingers unbuttoned his sleeves, and rolled them up to his elbows.

“Same as last week,” he replied, shrugging, but Dean could see the heaviness on those shoulders. He wished, again, that his brother would let some of that weight go, just for a minute. Sam began typing on the computer behind the front desk. “How busy was it today?”

He grimaced. “Not very. Looks like no one wants to go outside until this snow settles.”

“I thought maybe the whole ‘reading books in a dusty library while it snows outside’ aesthetic might draw some people in,” Sam retorted.

“Excuse you, my library is not _dusty_ ,” Dean exclaimed defensively.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Sam said, clicking the computer shut and hauling his socked feet up onto the table. He sighed, bringing a hand down to rub at one and wincing when he hit a sore spot.

Dean quirked an eyebrow. “Your feet hurt from driving? Wichita is like three and a half hours away with the snow. I swear, it’s like we’re not even related.”

“Some of us actually go on runs every morning,” his brother shot back, glaring. “I’m just tired, is all. It’s been a long day.”

“Right.” Dean left it at that, quickly finishing his pie while simultaneously trying to savour it. His stomach had, after all, been growling for the last two hours of Sam’s trip, but pie deserved respect. Admiration. To be cherished.

“Seriously, though,” Sam said, standing back up and stretching. “We need to drum up some business before we get into even more trouble.”

The older brother leaned back in his seat. “It’s fine, Sammy. Don’t worry about it.”

“Except it’s my job to worry, Dean! If _I_ don’t worry…” He trailed off, a guilty expression taking over his features. Right, of course. As if Dean didn’t worry his fair share. Sam bit his lip. “Look, I didn’t mean anything by that, okay? It’s just that you refuse to use our savings-”

“They’re not _our_ savings,” he spat, nostrils flaring dangerously. “Those are dad’s savings, and you know that.”

“He left them to us!” Sam fought back. “I know you and dad had a… difficult relationship-”

“ _Difficult_ ,” Dean scoffed.

“But,” his brother pressed, giving him a pointed look, “that money could save the library. Don’t you think that’s more important than whatever feud the two of you had going on before he died?”

Dean looked away, refusing to meet his brother’s eyes. “Maybe the library doesn’t need saving.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” He shrugged. “Maybe it’s time to let this place go. Everyone gets their books online nowadays anyway.”

Sam blinked. “Half of our collection is one of a kind – they’re not going to be on any website.”

“Which means no one even knows about them,” he pointed out. “No one comes to a library looking for books that, as far as they know, don’t even exist. Especially when that library is in a middle-of-nowhere town in Kansas.”

“So we get some more popular books for the locals! We don’t just _give up_.”

The older Winchester shook his head. “We can’t afford new books, and you know that. Besides, it’s not giving up if something’s run its course.”

“Okay, I’m going to pretend like you didn’t just say that the one place we’ve ever actually had to ourselves has ‘run its course’,” Sam replied, taking deep breaths through his nose.

Dean snorted. “This shit is starting to sound like a Hallmark Christmas movie.”

Sam glared at him. “Yeah, well, that makes you the villain. Or the cynical, bitter one.”

“Whatever,” Dean dismissed, chucking the empty bag in the trash by the counter.

His brother closed his eyes. “I’m going upstairs. It’s been a long fucking day and I’m ready for bed. You can sit here and think about what you just said to me.”

“I thought we were pretending I didn’t say it!” Dean called sarcastically as Sam retreated to the upstairs apartment. He stood, sighing as his knees crackled agedly. He muttered to himself as he paced the floor, “He just got back from Eileen, and you had to go and lay that on him. _Idiot._ ” Dean ran a hand through his hair frustratedly.

He spent an hour wandering around the library, shelving the few books on the carts and inspecting the shelves for misplaced books until his eyes were sore. He paused in the middle of the aisle just to admire the collection. There really were a few gems, the kind he was sure Sam would pay good money to read anywhere else.

Trailing his fingers along the spines, he pulled one out, a worn copy of The Wizard of Oz that he’d read dozens of times. This one had been the first of their collection when their mother had gifted it to Dean for his fourth birthday. Settling into an armchair in the corner, Dean cracked it open to the first page where a little note was written into the margins.

It was a simple message, no more than two sentences: _Happy birthday, Dean! Love, mom and dad._ Even now, he flipped past that page like it was the surface of a lit stove against his bare hands. Closing his eyes, he read through the first page in his mind instead, having memorized it years ago. _Chapter One, The Cyclone…_

A loud knock pulled him out of his reading. Hazarding a glance at the clock, he noticed it was well past closing – quarter to midnight, to be exact. Dean threw on a blanket and, clicking open a pen as though it would be of any use as an actual weapon, tiptoed carefully towards the front door. He unlocked the door and slid it open, barraged instantly by the freezing cold air of winter midnight.

Hazily, he registered a man standing on their doorstep, something clutched under his coat and a wild look in his eye, and Dean’s first instinct was to attack him with the pen – so he did, barrelling the pointed end towards the man’s chest. The man’s free hand came to grab Dean’s, effectively stopping him from impaling him. He looked unafraid, surprising considering what just occurred, but he had an intense curiosity and a bit of humour in his opal eyes. As he let go of Dean’s hand, it fell limp to his side.

Dean swallowed, running a hand over his mouth. “Who are you?”

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the man said apologetically. “I should have minded the time.”

“That’s not an answer, buddy.”

He sighed, unamused. A hand pushed his coat off one shoulder, revealing the laptop concealed beneath it, likely in an attempt to spare it from the falling snow. “I’m a novelist. Gabriel sent me. He thought you may be able to help with my newest work, although I’m not certain why.”

“Damn.” Dean muttered, still trying to catch his breath. “This couldn’t wait ‘till morning?”

“Like I said, it slipped my mind. I can come back.” The man’s teeth were clenched, and Dean only then noticed that he was shivering as little flakes of snow came to rest on his dark hair and thinly covered shoulders.

“I wouldn’t want to make you come all the way out here again,” Dean insisted, opening the door wider to let him in.

“Right,” he replied, smiling gratefully at Dean as he stepped into the warmth of the library. Dean stood by the door for a moment, staring after him as he registered what had just happened. Sure, he’d just let a random man into the building without asking more questions than ‘who are you’ – which he hadn’t gotten a proper answer to, by the way – but what was the worst that could possibly happen?

Maybe this was why Sam called him the stupid brother.

“So, you said Gabriel sent you?” Dean asked, trying to rectify his mistake. He hurried over to the kiosk where they kept snacks and hot drinks, brewing up some coffee. Something told him it was going to be a long night.

“Yes,” the man confirmed. “We met the other day when I stopped by the bakery. He has been tremendously hospitable ever since, so I felt it would be beneficial to listen to his suggestion.”

Dean cursed in his head. The baker didn’t even know him that well, huh? The hairs on his arms stood on end, but he willed them to calm down. He had his pen to protect him, after all. “Sounds just like Gabriel.”

“Being considerate of strangers?”

“Offering suggestions when no one asked for them,” Dean corrected, pouring the drink into two mugs and handing one to the man, who sniffed at it before taking a contented sip. He gestured for them both to sit, each taking one of the many antique chairs that made up the reading nook. Dean eyed the book he’d left face-down on the coffee table and sighed – the moment was gone, and he didn’t know when he would get it back. He stood and carefully slid it back onto its rightful position on the shelf. _B-a-u-m_ …

The man had observed him doing this with a watchful eye, apparently. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your reading,” he said, taking another sip. The wildness returned to his face that had startled Dean in the first place, which he was quickly realizing may just be over caffeination. He’d seen that look in Sam’s eyes more often than not when the kid was going through law school.

“It’s not a problem,” Dean dismissed, not wanting to go into it with someone he barely knew, much less someone who made every muscle in his body tense with unease just being around him. There was something about this man that was odd, off-putting. It was like he was from another world.

“Nevertheless, I apologize,” he said. Instead of responding, Dean allowed a moment of candid silence to fall over them, just to test how it would be – it was neither uncomfortable nor frightening, and he wouldn’t even use the word tense to describe it, but maybe… animated. Like needles pricking at his skin. It wasn’t entirely pleasant, the feeling like he was naked in a crowd full of people whose curious eyes were neither judging nor accepting.

He shifted, offering a hand. “Dean Winchester.”

The man stared at him, the lines of his throat deepening. “Oh…” A moment passed before he collected himself enough to take Dean’s hand and shake it. “Nice to meet you, Dean Winchester.”

Dean waited expectedly, hands still connected. Was he not going to introduce himself back? “You too…” he prompted, searching for a name. He didn’t like not knowing names. In fact, he knew the name of every woman he’d ever...

The man leaned forward to set his mug on the coffee table. “This library has a very nice disposition.”

“Thanks, it was in Architectural Digest,” he mocked. “Why won’t you tell me your name, dude?”

“A… combination of circumstances,” was the reply he received.

Dean clenched his jaw. “Well, I could just keep calling you ‘dude,’ then.”

The man grimaced. “I would prefer it if you didn’t.”

“Okay, then.” Dean folded his lips together. “Look, dude – uh, sorry, last time. Look, I get it. Sometimes you just wanna start over, or whatever. You don’t have to give me your _real_ name if you don’t want to.”  
  
His brows furrowed. “My _real_ name?”

Dean shrugged. “You’re a writer. Come up with a pen name.”

“A pen name,” he repeated, as though the thought had never occurred to him. “Like what?”

Dean couldn’t help but smile at the child-like excitement that dawned on the man’s face. “Whatever you want. Unless you try to make me call you Dr. Sexy.” Met with a blank face, Dean flushed and brushed it off. “Uh, you know… Just pick a name. Like when you were a kid and played pretend, or something.” Almost imperceptibly, the man’s eyes twitched in a wince. Dean filed that information away in his head for if he would ever need it, not that he thought he would. If he were lucky, he could help him with whatever he needed and never see him again. “Like you’re naming one of your characters, maybe.”

A few minutes passed in quiet contemplation before the man spoke again. “Jimmy,” he finally said, nodding decidedly. “My name is Jimmy.”

Biting back his instinctual sarcasm, Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “Jimmy it is.”

The new smile that bloomed on his face was nothing short of alluring, and Dean took that moment to _look_ at the man he’d been trying to avoid looking at. His nose came into a sharp point when he smiled that offset the lines that deepened around his eyes and mouth – not lines of age, but lines of man-made creation, like a few years of terrible happiness had engraved them into his skin like a time machine.

“So,” Dean began, leaning towards the man in a newfound, dangerous instinct, “how can I help you, Jimmy?”

***


End file.
